


Gale Force

by idler



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idler/pseuds/idler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bookverse 'missing scene', set early in CS Forester's <i>Commodore Hornblower</i>.  It is April, 1812:  Commodore Hornblower and Captain Bush are reunited and face their first real challenge aboard <i>Nonsuch</i>, not long after setting sail for their mission in the Baltic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gale Force

**Author's Note:**

> Book canon, containing spoilers from _Ship of the Line_ forward.
> 
>  
> 
> _...Captains on half-pay, captains with shore appointments eating out their hearts with waiting for a sea appointment, it was in his power to change the whole life and career of one of these. Yet there was no hesitation about his decision. There might be more brilliant captains available, captains with more brains, but there was only one man that he wanted._
> 
>   _"I'll have Bush," he said, "if he's available."_
> 
>   _........................C.S. Forester, Commodore Hornblower_
> 
>    
> Written for the letter G in [](http://lokei.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lokei.livejournal.com/)**lokei** 's Horatio Hornblower Alphabet Soup ficathon  
> Jan 22, 2010

  


**  
_Gale Force_  
**  


Commodore Horatio Hornblower reluctantly heaved himself out of the wildly swinging cot and struggled to sit upright. The room whirled and swam before his eyes, and he fought down the indescribable urge to seize the bucket standing ready, for God knew there could be nothing at all remaining in his abused body. He wanted no more than to remain wretched in his cot until the storm had passed, enduring the motion as _Nonsuch_ rolled and heaved and floundered with a sickening irregularity, but his sense of duty would never allow it.

He had done his best to remain on deck, but his misery had been too great. One would have hoped that a commodore would not be subject to this humiliating weakness; however, it seemed somehow to be far worse than it had ever been. The knowledge that Nelson himself had suffered from this same constitutional flaw provided no comfort: he could readily imagine the secret amusement of his junior officers, all of whom appeared to be blissfully unaffected by _Nonsuch’s_ riotous gyrations.

Years past, he would have given little thought to leaving Bush to cope while he recovered his sea-legs; now, however, he felt consumed with guilt even as he reminded himself of Bush’s calm and competent seamanship. He knew full well that allowing Bush to handle this crisis alone would further assure the officers and men of his confidence in Bush’s ability, and dispel any rumour that his captaincy was due to mere partiality or sentiment.

None of that was, of course, the least salve to his conscience. Hornblower thought back to the early hours of the gale, two—was it but two?—days past. The storm had struck only days from port, in the dark of the morning watch: almost without warning, though in the course of the night the barometer had dropped, then risen sharply. He had thus given the order to clew up the courses and t’gallants, but the blow struck even as the men scrambled aloft, forcing them to cling for their very lives as _Nonsuch_ heeled dramatically before the relentless force of the wind.

That first day had seemed interminable. _Nonsuch_ made heavy going through the increasingly violent sea, each plunge flinging torrents of spray up and to leeward, further drenching the men aloft while cascades of green water surged over the windward rail and threatened to sweep the unwary from their feet. Hornblower stood aside, watching with quiet approval as Bush shouted countless orders, eyes slitted against the pounding rain and blown spume.

Bush had peered intently skyward, shielding his eyes from the driving rain as he studied the motion of the foremast, then turned to his commodore. “I do not like it, sir. I fear the fore topmast may be sprung." He eyed the midshipman at his elbow. “Aloft with you, Mr. Somers, and see how it stands.”

The midshipman had looked up at the wildly spiraling topmast, knowing full well that as the ship rolled and tossed with the waves he would find himself at times suspended over nothing but the boiling sea, battered by stinging rain and howling wind. A single misstep, a slip, and he would be lost. The knowledge of this was plain in his eyes as he looked back at his captain, and hesitated.

“Goddamn it, Somers.” Bush spat on his own leathery palms, rubbed them together, looked aloft, and growled, “I’d go myself, but …”

“…but it would not be seemly,” Somers finished, smoothly. “Aye, aye, sir.” He headed for’rd with every evidence of eagerness, though his face was pale despite his wind-reddened cheeks.

Hornblower watched the midshipman narrowly as he scrambled up the shrouds. Somers—despite his unprepossessing, plump aspect—appeared to have a natural gift for diplomacy even in the face of crisis, a quality which might prove most useful in the future.

_Diplomacy_ , of all things. Hornblower had never dreamed diplomacy would be needed at this moment, here on his very deck—for Bush, no less. As he had watched Bush these past few days, he had happily congratulated himself upon his decision to pluck Bush from the ignominy of the dockyard and put him back upon the quarterdeck where he belonged. Bush had been clearly in his element, and he had allowed himself a measure of self-satisfied approval at every display of Bush’s capable seamanship. He had not stopped to consider for a moment that his magnanimity might prove to be more of a burden than a blessing for Bush himself, that it might be difficult for such a man to confront all that had been taken from him.

He had had little opportunity to ponder the matter further at the time, for as the storm increased his seasickness had intensified as well, eventually driving him to his cabin where he had remained, utterly miserable and scarcely unable to stand upright for more than a few moments at a time. He could only lie huddled in limp and abject distress, his ears filled with the roar of the wind, the wild creaking of the hull, and the incessant clamor of the chain pump.

But now on the third day, driven by duty, Hornblower struggled to his feet and dragged himself on deck, at times barely able to make out Bush’s familiar solid outline against the driving rain and darkness, though it was only noon. As he clung weakly to a backstay he could see the raw sores on Bush’s hands and wrists where salt spray had done its work. He had been dimly aware of his steward ferrying hot coffee and hard tack to the quarterdeck, as Bush had not entered his cabin since the storm began. The man had been on deck and soaked through for days on end; still, Hornblower knew that Bush’s cast-iron constitution would serve him well.

Even as he reflected, he was startled to see Bush stagger as the deck heaved abruptly beneath them. Unable to regain his balance as the ship dove and corkscrewed wildly into a trough, Bush lost his footing entirely and fetched hard against a quarterdeck nine-pounder. Hornblower fancied that he heard Bush’s ribs crack, but knew it could only have been imagination, as the wind howled deafeningly through the rigging, battering his ears. The master’s mate quickly seized Bush’s arm and hauled him upright, though he shook off the mate’s supportive grasp the next moment. Bush appeared to be unharmed, thus Hornblower quickly retreated to his cabin, knowing that Bush would suffer agonies of embarrassment had he known that his commodore had observed his humiliation.

The effort—perhaps it was that—reawakened his nausea, and he barely reached the hated bucket in time, heaving until he felt weak and drained, almost transparent. But the emptying of his body in turn somehow clarified his thoughts, and he slumped into his desk chair, aghast.

What had he done? The old Bush could stand easily on a nearly vertical deck, and would run up the rigging as ably as any topman. Hornblower had given no thought at all to the practical difficulties posed by Bush’s injury, and even less to the effect it might have had upon him. He had thought only of having Bush freed from the dockyard and at his side once more, and had never once considered the cost to Bush’s spirit: as a captain, and as a man.

But that was nothing new, he mused. He was incapable of wisdom, he knew it: his every well-intentioned act resulted in misery and pain. He had married not for love but out of what he had believed at the time to be charity, unwilling to abuse Maria’s emotions or her trust…and what had that brought her? A distant husband—both in posting and in heart—who had never loved her as he ought. Sorrow, as two children died in her arms. And, in giving her a third child, he had bestowed death itself upon her.

And Marie. Dear Marie. He had justified his false declaration of love: time and distance had served to convince him that she had known full well that it was but a pleasant interlude, that he had given her a brief respite from the loneliness that oppressed her. He knew, in truth, that he had broken her heart. She, also, had deserved far better than the little he had offered.

And Bush had deserved better. Hornblower realized, now, that he ought to have left well enough alone; far better to allow Bush to serve out his days in the dockyard. The man was the soul of integrity, thoroughly steeped in the ways of ships, a superb administrator, and no one’s fool: all would have made him an exemplary Commissioner. Bush would have been perfectly able, and would have performed his duties with excellence and pride. Instead—at Hornblower’s hand—he was now forced to stumble about, constantly aware of his own deficiencies.

Hornblower tried to rise, gathering the courage to face the man whom he had so deeply wronged, but the resulting vertigo forced him back into the chair. He put his head on his arms for just a moment, until it might sufficiently pass…and slept, at last.

He awakened to a curious sense of calm. The deafening roar that had battered his senses was quiet; all he could hear were the normal sounds of a ship working around him and the unhurried clanking of the pumps. Arising carefully, he emerged on deck to find the storm had abated; the sky was lightening and changing to a more normal color from its earlier unearthly greenish hue, and the massed dark clouds were beginning to break up and disperse to the east. He looked about him, finding only Meadows. “Where is Captain Bush?”

“In his cabin, sir.” Meadows dropped his voice, for his commodore's ears alone. “The surgeon is attending.”

Alarmed, Hornblower forced himself to stride unhurriedly to Bush’s cabin and calmly open the door. He found Bush standing, his back turned: shirtless, braced against a cabin chair, the wooden leg discarded and propped against the bulkhead. Hornblower could see the white strapping about the man’s ribs—apparently the sound of cracking bone had not been entirely borne of imagination after all. The surgeon had cut away the leg of Bush’s trousers and was on his knees, deftly applying some malodorous preparation to numerous livid red patches on Bush’s leg and thigh where salt, wet linen, and sodden leather straps had done their best to flay the skin raw.

The sight struck Hornblower like a physical blow. And it was all his doing. Without his interference, Bush would have never been here, never forced beyond his limits by another’s self-absorption. Simple apology was woefully inadequate, but it was, after all, a beginning. He owed the man that, at least. “God, Bush…I never thought…it was…” Hornblower faltered, groping for the proper words.

Bush turned, and the force of the grin that split the man’s face swept away every dark cloud of regret and outshone the first rays of the sun that now tentatively picked their way through the salt-smeared stern windows. “It was… _splendid_.” He clapped his hands together, jubilant, his blue eyes alight. “ _Nonsuch_ is sound, never a rag of sail split, and not a man lost. By _God_ , sir…it was _glorious_.”

“And it was all your doing.” Bush thrust out a battered hand. “Thank you, sir. I thought I never would be here again.”

Hornblower cleared his throat: for a moment, incapable of speech. But Bush’s joy was infectious, irresistible, and he found himself stepping forward to accept the man’s outstretched hand in both of his own. “You are most…” he smiled, grateful for the solidity of Bush's firm grip. “… _Most_ welcome.”


End file.
